Creation of Hogwarts: Portraits of the Founders
by BlueSphinx
Summary: The four founders, their thoughts on the school and on each other.


**The Creation of Hogwarts: The Portraits of the Founders**

Snow was weighing heavily on the high towers of the castle on those silent weeks before Christmas, and the steady flow had not yet ended. From this high, he could see the impenetrable forest stretching towards the mountain tops on either side of the valley where the castle was built. The branches of the nearest trees were holding the castle in their embrace, so that in summer, when the trees were in full leaf, no light could possibly penetrate the small windows of the lowest, basement rooms. Right now, in winter, there was no light even in his tower.

He had always liked to look down on landscape from somewhere higher. The forest, bathed in pure white snow, though it seemed quite grey from this distance in this nonexistent light, had always seemed much more enjoyable from this point. And the lake was another thing. If he strained his neck a bit he could see its frozen surface between the dark masses of trees. He really liked the lake; it was so beautiful when the sun glittered on it in warm summer evenings, or when colourful autumn leaves were floating on its still surface, but he could never understand the passion with which some people talked about water and swimming. Naturally he liked to take a ride on his carpet and float over it, just as much as he liked to hover over the treetops of the forest, and sometimes even more than the carpet-races they had inside the forest now and then, but he would never jump willingly into the lake.

Godric walked back to his large mahogany table. He was bored. He ruffled his greying hair and raised his sword from the belt. The fire from the crate made the rubies glitter and the silver cast a reflection of light on the high ornamented ceiling. He knew his name was engraved in it near the hilt, but his eyesight had been getting even worse with years. _I really need to talk to Rowena about that,_ he thought as he carefully placed the tip of the sword on the table and tried to balance it. He let go of it slowly, took a careful step back, and then, before it could fall over, jumped to the table and crabbed it in his hand.

It was still so comfortable, so natural. As if he weren't old. As if his Roman features hadn't started to lose their straightness, as if his pitch-black hair wasn't only an unmanageable mass of grey now. Salazar had told him that fifty was not that much. It was easy for him to speak; he was barely twenty five. Now he was crunched up in those dungeons of his, trying to come up with a suitable name for the school.

That had been Helga's idea. A really pretty young thing she was. Always with her feet on the ground; usually her fingers in it was well. She had proposed that all of them try to come up with some suitable names for the future school by themselves, later they could get together and choose the best. And Salazar had locked himself up in that den of his almost instantly; Godric knew he was ambitious enough to want his idea to be chosen.

And Rowena had taken up the challenge that Salazar submitted. She had retreated to her tower only shortly after that, to come up with something witty that would beat his. She had also added a prize to the name competition — the one whose name was to be chosen would become the Head of the school once it was opened.

That woman also puzzled Godric. She was beautiful and talented and really witty when it came to magic. She liked heights, just like him, yet never took part in their flying games, preferring to be the judge and stand aside, laughing. In addition to that, she had fought against them all when building the library; she had insisted it be thrice the size Godric had intended on the primary plan. And she had got her wish, though on Helga's demand they had divided it in two, putting the more dangerous books together and calling that part the Restricted Section. To get a book from that part, one had to tackle all the spells that Rowena herself put on it, or then get a written permission from her, which would take the wards off the required book.

What amazed Godric even more was the fact that when the library was ready, Rowena had moved most of her personal books there, placing them neatly in a system no one else understood in the Restricted part. He had added his seven or eight copies on general magic theory to the open shelves of the library, yet the possessions of Rowena took up almost the whole of the Restricted section. Even Salazar and Helga had more books than him; yet all three of them were younger than him.

And there was another thing that troubled his mind. He had no ideas for the name. And he had a funny feeling that when they decided they would choose the best name of those that were proposed, they had overlooked something crucial. He shifted his hat on his head into a more comfortable position, thinking about it. He felt it was coming to him, but he still couldn't point it out. Yet.

* * *

Rowena sat in her office with a parchment, a quill, and the "Heavy Book of Names". The lit candle on her table burned brightly, flickering on the deep blue silk of her magnificent and rather uncomfortable dress, and on a tall mirror in the opposite side of the office.

That mirror was her pride and joy. It had started as an extremely well-polished, yet still simple looking-glass, which an old, rich, and pointless man who only managed to stay alive as her husband for about six years had given to her upon their marriage. Rowena had taken a liking to this mirror and the intricately engraved frame it was set in, so this had been the single item she had taken with her when, after her husband's death his eldest son, the one his first wife had borne him, had driven her out of the castle and put her two daughters and baby son under the care of his own wife.

The first few years after that she would just spend her days and nights looking at the mirror, not even seeing her reflection in it, just wondering at its beauty, thinking about her children and their father, whom, despite of his pointlessness and age, she missed. And then she had charmed the mirror to show her her family. She had carved an explanation on the already engraved frame, but she had written it from the end to the beginning, for it was still a mirror, she had thought then with a sad smile. She still sometimes let a tear drop, thinking back at the irony of those days, and looking into the mirror, where the figures of her family did show no more.

Now there was a school in her mirror. A school where the smartest of the magical blood could be taught to be even smarter.

She had leafed through the majority of the book in front of her, and the list on the table was impressive. A small chuckle escaped her lips as she got an idea. She crossed out all variants of the name for the castle she had written on her list — the names of the mountains circling the castle, the different things the nearby lake was called, all words in different languages meaning things like "deep in the woods" or "palace of magic", the incantations and spell words she or her three friends had come up with over their years of practicing magic. She needed a name that would win her friends' support, and now she thought she had found it.

Theresa.

She wrote it down in bold letters and smiled. None of her friends would expect that. She hadn't expected it herself. And who in their right mind would like to name a school after a woman!

And what a woman it was! A little thing of the local descent, no magic in her veins, no aristocracy in her family. Yet she was too fragile in appearance to be a peasant, and too strong in mind. No wonder Salazar had focused all his attention at her every time they went to the neighbouring village.

This name would guarantee Salazar's support, she was convinced. And then Salazar would blush, and Godric would also take her side, just to see the blush on Salazar's cheeks deepen. Only Helga might be opposed at first, but she was one of that kind of people who would do anything to avoid trouble and quarrels.

The perfect name secured on a piece of parchment, Rowena stood up and took her book back to its original place in her heavy bookshelf. Helga had always seemed a bit strange to her. She somehow seemed out of place amidst their group of friends. Rowena understood Godric's craving for great deeds and boundless bravery. She had her thirst for knowledge, knowledge of everything and everyone. And Salazar was known for his ambition. The three of them had something to guide them through their lives, take them through the rough times and give them something to do in moments of idleness.

But Helga was different. Her only reason in life seemed to be liked by as many people as possible. It seemed like her only wish was to sound cheery and smile to everyone. She usually stayed quiet in their meetings, but when she said something, it not only amazed Rowena, but also left the two men staring at her with wide eyes.

Yet Rowena knew that without Helga there would be no Theresa — no castle that she could give a name to, no school for young witches and wizards. If the three of them could be described as three stones, each their own colour and texture and structure, then Helga would be the soft and flexible glue keeping them together. Without her Rowena would have locked herself up in a filthy cottage somewhere with her books, reading old ones and writing new ones, Godric would be travelling the lands with those few possessions he had, and Salazar would have long ago married a nice respectable lady and would already be governing more lands than Godric could travel or she herself read about.

And that was the thing about Helga that she didn't understand. Without saying anything, without pointing in any direction, she had managed to make them give up their unrealistic and nonsensical dreams and made them settle down to create a school, to pass down their knowledge to generations of younger witches and wizards. She was definitely the most sensible of them all.

Yet, having planted the idea in their minds, Helga had just smiled and said nothing. She had stayed with them, helped them in building, but not commenting on the others' wishes, never arguing with them, always trying to find compromises. And when Rowena had proposed she take the North Tower for her office, just as the West was hers and the South Godric's and they had anticipated Salazar to claim the East for himself, Helga had politely declined the offer and instead taken a low-ceilinged room in the basement for herself, saying she was afraid of heights.

Godric had laughed at that, and Salazar had smirked. Even Rowena herself couldn't do much more than just stare, dumbfounded. Helga had just smiled that little smile of hers and suggested the North Tower to be given to either Astronomy or Divination.

And Rowena could see the tower in question out of a window in her room. They had then decided on divination, as the East Tower that Salazar had declined on was taller and therefore better suited for Astronomy.

She shifted her corset to a more comfortable position and glanced at her mirror. Thinking of Helga always made her loose her countenance. She somehow needed to regain it, and looking at her deepest desires coming to life was the best way for it.

* * *

She didn't like winter. She thought it was cold. If it had been for her to choose, she would have been born to a place where there was no snow; if there was such a place anywhere. Yes, she liked to see the others playing in the snow as if they were kids; in some respects they really were children; but she would rather go flying than take part in a snow fight. In some way or another she had taken over the role of a mother in their small and strange family.

Helga Hufflepuff let her breath melt a hole into the icy flowers on her window panes so that she could see the naked bulks of trees outside. She followed a trail of ice that resembled a leaf of a fern with her mouth, blowing slightly. Sometimes she would enjoy doing it, designing with her breath the patterns of next day's flowers on her window. But today was a different day; today she had made a mistake.

She didn't notice it before much later. How could she have done something like that; give them a chance on a competition. She knew they were too different to ever come to consensus on anything. Yet she, Helga Hufflepuff, their self-appointed mother and keeper of peace in the castle, had given them a chance to have a row. Helga pressed her hand on the window and held it there until it started to become numb. There was a mark of her tiny hand on the pane, in the ice. Next morning it would look like a huge leaf of holly or a tiny bush of heather, depending on the temperature outside.

Helga walked over to her fireplace to warm her hands up again. How could she put a toy between her three children like that! It wasn't that Salazar was greedy, or Rowena too full of herself, or Godric too reckless; but they were all too strong in their mind, too convinced in their views.

_It's so strange_, Helga thought as she moved the vase of dried flowers to the other corner of the mantelpiece, _the four of us here_. She felt slightly out of place sometimes; it wasn't the great deeds that made her apprehensive in the others' company, she was always a part of the Four, as Godric had taken to call them. It was the little things that showed that she didn't belong.

Like the nature, for example. They all liked animals, but Helga preferred plants. They had once, long ago, even discussed the topic, quite heatedly. It had been when Rowena had showed them her pet raven, and said that she believed birds to have a high intelligence. Rowena had always been one for birds.

And Godric and Salazar had quickly agreed that all animals were sensible, intelligent. But she didn't like that word, intelligence. She preferred to use the word soul; it was the soul of the animals that made Rowena's birds follow her commands and the animals in the forest escape when the men were out on another expedition. And she was convinced that there was a soul in the plants as well, a soul which you could not measure by intelligence.

And yet, despite all those differences, it wasn't her that was the odd one out in their group of friends. It was definitely Godric who didn't belong. While Rowena, Salazar and her, they could work on their goals with no regrets, putting their time and effort in it, Godric was reckless and foolhardy, never planning anything, running straight to undiscovered areas, with no reason. He was just so much different from the others that Helga sometimes even wondered whether he deserved a place as a teacher at their school.

Helga sat into her armchair, the one she had placed just next to the fireplace and where she spent most of her evenings during the winter. It was dark yellow with thin black stripes; extremely comfortable. She sat down in its warm embrace and found herself pondering on the same thing she had been thinking about too much in the recent weeks. Godric Gryffindor.

It wasn't that she thought he was old, though he was almost twice the age of Rowena and more than thrice that of her. His old age only gave him experience and knowledge, both on magic and life in general. Without his explanations they would never even had the idea to hide the castle from the Muggles. But he had told them about the anti-wizard clouds gathering throughout the country long before it had become visible; now, thanks to his warning, they were a lone safe heaven of magic in the middle of the storm.

No, his old age was his bonus; without it he could have ruined not only the building of the castle, but also the lives of his fellow builders and friends. It was as if even his breathing attracted trouble. It wasn't a surprise when, after an expedition to the forest to get to know their surrounding mountains better, he had come out with his clothes smeared with blood and his sword unsheathed, along with several arrows sticking out of his limbs. If it hadn't been for Rowena's vast knowledge of healing spells and potions, he could have died of the repercussions. And if it hadn't been for Salazar's powers concerning convincing and Helga's attractiveness and skill in pleading, they would have been forced to leave their castle behind or die. And all because of his hot-headedness.

And as if the never-ending war with the centaurs wasn't enough, Godric had decided to go and fly over the lake and then fall in and make some mortal enemies in there as well. Ah, it could only be their fortune to build a castle for young uneducated witches and wizards right next to a lake with vicious Merpeople in it. It had been just short of a miracle that Godric had escaped from the lake alive and more or less in one piece. And again it had been a job for the other three to smooth out the trouble Godric had stirred up.

Of course, Helga had to hand it to him; Godric had been the one behind the idea of creating a school at first. But it seemed as if he regarded it as another adventure of his; he just came out with his crazy ideas, and the others needed to plan and calculate while he wandered around and behaved as much as a child as the real kids from the nearby village. It wasn't that he didn't know how to work or that he didn't like to work, but he only could do a thing as long as it interested him, as long as he found it amusing. But when it became boring, routine, from that point onwards it was up to the others to keep the project going.

And now all this thing with the name! How she had acted just like Godric, spoken before thinking. How could she believe they could choose a name, an author of which was one in their midst. They could never come to a consensus, they never before had. They could compromise, or at least Helga could make them compromise by trying to control Godric's childish behaviour. And now she had placed a much-desired toy between the three children, only wanting to be good, but failing at it miserably. She knew if she didn't come up with something surprising the three hounds would be at each other before she could even take a breath.

Helga sighed. She needed something to drink, she couldn't think without it. With a snap of fingers she ordered one of the house elves they had bidden to the castle to bring her a cup of tea.

With the warm tea in her hands, crackling flames in the crate, and the puffiness of her armchair surrounding her, she could even forget Godric's silliness and the ambition of the others. She could think her own thoughts freely, the fear for the plants out there in the cold not troubling her mind, the frost left alone to paint the flowers on her window.

* * *

_Why did I have to take all the _interesting_ books to the library!_ Salazar sighed as he stocked his objects of Ancient Arts in his travelling case, securing them with his robes. It was already dark outside, partly due to the heavy clouds weighing down on the castle, partly due to the late hour, and partly because of the trees around the castle that grew so close to each other that even when there were no leaves the light could hardly penetrate the intertwining boughs.

Salazar knew he was too deep in trouble already. He was glad others had given him an excuse to retreat to his rooms and start packing. They thought it was his ambition to win with the name that had made him lock himself up there; they could never understand why he needed to leave.

But he knew he had to leave. He didn't belong with the others. He had made preparations for this long ago, already when building the castle. Nobody would ever understand him, so he never tried to explain.

He carefully set a plait of unicorn hair next to a vial of spring water on top of his dark emerald green robes. He had made sure last night that the last of the precautions was ready — the basilisk had hatched and was now secured in the Secret Chamber. So that if he ever had children, ever had any magical progeny that would attend this school… All was taken care of.

He knew the other three well. They were like the three sides of the same coin, so similar in their views regarding the world around them, so convinced in the purity and supremacy of magic. They had hidden the castle from the Muggles, not even giving a thought to the possibility that maybe, just maybe the Muggles were right and a school like that would only bring doom to both their worlds.

Salazar knew he didn't fit in. He could have fit if it wasn't for the others' obsession to dedicate their lives to teaching magic. They all thought it would do good to the world; but Salazar believed otherwise. Magic, even if its development was being monitored by the best of their age, even then magic was too dangerous. He had told them more than one time, but they didn't listen. They didn't understand.

They didn't give him a chance to explain. They misunderstood, and didn't let him correct them. And if they wanted it, they would get it. He couldn't fight any longer. He would leave.

Salazar pressed the lid on his travel chest shut, and sat down on it. He let his gaze wander over the empty shelves and bare walls of his dungeon rooms. It looked deserted, just like it had to look. And Salazar knew that for once he was doing something absolutely right. And that made him feel good.

He would attend the meeting that night, the meeting where they would choose the name for the disaster of a school they were establishing. He swayed on the lid on his case in a good mood and thought what utterly preposterous name he should suggest. Something that sounded like spitting… Splatter. Splatter School for Magical Progeny. _Yes, they're expecting something like that_, he mused. And he knew that nothing good could come of it all if those three friends of his were left alone to it.

On numerous occasions already had he said that the teaching of magic should be left for children of magical parentage only. His friends had taken it as him opposing children with Muggle heritage, and they had started shouting before he could explain. _Let them have their lesson_, he had thought. They would never understand how terribly dangerous magic could be if it wasn't taught from the very start how to keep magic and emotions apart. He had nothing against Muggleborns as it was, but if they were quite old already and only then taught to yield the power of magic, then they could bring the whole world crashing down on them. It needed careful and calm teaching throughout the first years of their lives to make witches and wizards understand their power, not only use it. And the other three didn't understand it. They didn't know as much of the Ancient Arts.

Salazar was slightly surprised at first that even Rowena didn't understand him. But then he realised she did; only she believed that with enough work from both the teacher and the student, everything was possible to be taught at school. So he let them have their fantasies and decided to leave.

And he wouldn't have left if it wasn't for her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid his eyes on. Like a gentle flower whom the storms of the mountains tried to uproot. She had made him open his eyes, she had made him see that he was not needed at the school. She had made him see what the others were like, how they wanted the school to be run, what they expected the school to become. She had made him realise that the others would never listen to his explanations, and that therefore he had no place among them any more. She had made him propose her to leave the stormy mountains, to start a new life somewhere far away from there, where they both could be happier.

She had made him think, too. He had realised that should they ever have children, they would not be brought up in the way required for witches and wizards, as their mother would have no magic. He had realised that it was his job to protect their worlds from the doom of unknowing wizards who would not understand the consequences of magic. He had built the Secret Chamber and arranged the hatching of a basilisk in there, so that if it ever happened that he had any children with magic in their mixed blood, he would be able to release the basilisk on them, relieve the world of the danger they encompassed.

And all the while his friends had not seen it. They had not seen his bravery in delving into those old books on Ancient Arts; had not seen his wisdom behind his words; and they would not see his loyalty in leaving them behind. So Salazar extinguished the fire in the crate with a wave of his hand and _Vanished_ all the dust and other rubbish that had littered the floor. He threw his travelling cloak on top of his chest, and leaned his cane next to it. He was ready. All he had to do was to charm the chest to move by its own, and seal his office shut forever. But that would be only after the meeting.

* * *

**A/N:** I must say I really enjoyed writing this story. I can also feel a sequel coming, something with actual storyline and everything; and I'd be happy to share it with you if you want. So, I hope you enjoyed this one and, please, leave a review! 


End file.
